Requiem
by treesofsilverleaves
Summary: Nightmares suck, memories suck, and the Joker has escaped from Arkham. Jason really needs a drink.
1. Part One

**Requiem**

_**Part One:**_

_**Memories Are Dangerous Things**_

"_**Woke up, wished that I was dead." – World Spins Madly On, by the Weepies**_

_ There's no beginning to the nightmare, there never is. One minute there's nothing, and the next, sound. A maniacal laugh rings out from somewhere in the darkness. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know it's a dream._

_ Despite the lack of surroundings, the setting feels familiar, in a sickening, terrifying way. The laughter echoes around the emptiness, the black space, filling his ears like water. He could be drowning, for all he knows._

_ The laughter increases._

_ "Come on, little robin," a voice croons, punctuated by crazed giggles. It's high pitched but most definitely male, the slimy and slithery sound crawling down his spine and sending shivers throughout his body. Foreboding blossoms in his mind but is driven to the wayside by a cold spike of fear. "Don't you want to plaaay?"_

_ Suddenly a fiery, searing pain ripples across his skin, almost like a ghost. The memory of __**real**__ pain, phantom blows striking at his back, his sides, face, limbs. He would scream, but there's fluid in his lungs, on his lips – it tastes like metal and like nothing all at the same time. Well. Not screaming, that's good. He was never one for showing weakness. That would only get you killed._

_ He bites clean through his lip in an effort not to make a sound._

_ "Come on," the voice croons once more, laughing at his obvious agony. "Scream for Uncle J!"_

_ A face looms up above him – a white, ghostly face, framed in green hair, dark shadows painted around the eyes and a red, gaping grin. He shudders and moans as the face leans away, only to be replaced by more pain. He's being hit again. An image flashes in front of his eyes, a crowbar. Is that what he's being hit with? Something in his gut tells him that sounds about right as the laughter continues to surround him and the blows just keep on coming. He closes his eyes._

_ A beeping starts, distant and muffled by the fire of agony wrapped around him like a blanket. With a final, wet CRACK!, everything stops. The crowbar retreats; the voice sighs. "Uncle J's gonna miss ya, kid," it announces, attempting to ruffle his hair and only managing to smear the hot, sticky blood across his forehead. He flinches away instinctively, garnering another crazed laugh, and sending another wave of hurt throughout his body. "Bye bye, birdie!"_

_ With a final mad cackle, the voice disappears. All that is left is the distant beeping, slowly growing louder and louder, closer and closer. With a considerable amount of effort, he reopens his eyes, and is rewarded with the sight of a set of red numbers, blinking just before his nose. Counting down._

_ Something tugs at his heart. A longing for something – for someone – a regret. But he's too tired now, much too tired to dissect the feeling. __**I wish I listened**__, he thinks, too exhausted to remember just what he was supposed to be listening to or why. __**I'm sorry. **_

_ Down, down, down, the numbers count, red and red and red, blazing eerie and foreboding. He's going to die here, he realizes, he __**finally, really**__ realizes, he's going to __**die**__ here. He's going to die._

_ He is not, in fact, going to be saved this time._

_ His heart races. He starts to close his eyes—_

_ -_and wakes himself up, choking on his own gasping breath.

Immediately, almost mechanically, Jason clamps his mouth shut, breathing out harshly through his nose – a trick he picked up over the years to help control his breathing. He pushes himself slowly into a sitting position, rubbing furiously at his groggy, tear-encrusted eyes and trying to shake off the maniacal laughter echoing through his memories. After a moment and a deep breath, he takes quick inventory of himself and his surroundings.

Almost his entire upper body is covered with a layer of cold sweat, despite the Gotham summer heat. His heart rate, which had been racing, is starting to slow back into a normal rhythm. He's in one of his safe-houses, with an extra gun stashed under his pillow. Nothing is out of place. All's well.

Jason winces as a slow burn starts to develop in his side. _Guess not. _He reaches down to check on it and winces again as his short fingernails catch the slightest bit on the bandages. Imagining the sticky red flower that's surely blooming over the stark white background isn't all that hard. He must have pulled his stitches in the night.

He groans and clambers out of his bed, shuffling toward the cramped bathroom that houses his medical supplies. As he tends to the cut – a deep stab wound given to him last evening when he was taking down another meth lab – he finds himself wishing for Alfred, with his gentle touch and cool hands, more soothing than his own fumbling fingers. Alfred was always taking care of him, whether he was injured or sick. But that was then. That was back when he had a family.

That was back before the Joker.

Jason clenches his jaw and puts the thought out of his mind. He finishes wrapping his side and shuffles out of the bathroom, trying to decide whether he wants to eat breakfast at four in the morning or attempt to sleep through the day. The decision isn't actually very hard at all. Even if he manages to fall back asleep, the nightmare will only resurface. It always does, nowadays.

Sleep had always been hard to come by for him, even back when he was young, but ever since he came back to Gotham it's just been one nightmare after the next. At least he doesn't scream anymore, not like in the beginning. Screaming attracted too much attention, attention Jason did not like to have when he wasn't actively seeking it out. _Screaming means weakness_.

The thought reminds him of Talia. She'd comforted him, in those early days after he rose from the dead, came running when he cried out at night. It had been awkward – he'd never pegged Talia for the mothering type – but also kind of nice. Then again, she also kept using the nightmares as points in her argument that he should run back to Bruce. That was a front on which he had always been conflicted. He wanted to go _home_, but at the same time, it was obvious that home didn't want him. Home forgot about him.

Eventually, he had stopped screaming, and she had stopped coming.

Without his permission, his mind wanders further back, to nightmares of the decidedly non-Joker variety. Jason holds his breath as, unbidden and unwanted, other memories float to the surface of his thoughts. Waking up from nightmares that now seemed so much _less_, going to find Bruce, who seemed to be constantly awake, and just _sitting_ with him. The two would sit in silence for an indefinite amount of time, either in the cave or in Bruce's study, while Bruce worked and Jason watched. Sometimes he would pitch in, other times he nodded off and had to be carried back to his bed. Neither spoke of those nights during waking hours, but it had been something Jason cherished. And, apparently, grown far too used to, if the empty feeling that often plagued him now was any indication.

He shakes his head. For the last five or so years he'd been dealing with the nightmares by himself. Instead of leaving it alone, he fills the hole inside him with anger, replaces the regrets with fury. It's not the healthiest way of coping – Jason laughs bitterly – but since when was he ever concerned over his mental health? Hell, even before he died, he'd spent his nights running around rooftops in scaly green panties and punching colorful criminals.

Sometimes he wonders just how much his death really effected – not the world, but – well. At first he didn't realize it, consumed with his need for revenge, but once things had settled down slightly he noticed that everything seemed _darker_. Grittier. Sure, life in Gotham had never been a cakewalk, but people smiled more, the Rogues gallery had been goofier, and even the sky seemed lighter. Now, it seems that Gotham is the hellhole it had always been said to be. It's as if Jason's death had crossed some invisible line, and everyone knows that once you cross a line you can't ever turn back.

He snorts. _Getting arrogant_, he thinks to himself, rummaging through his kitchen cabinets to see if he has any edible food left or if he has to order takeout again. It's really quite clear that his death didn't change anything. After all, he had been replaced within the year. Child heroes still exist. _Robin_ still exists.

And the Joker is still alive.

"Hrmph," Jason grunts and pushes that line of thought to the side, pulling down a box of cereal and peering inside. Lucky Charms, still enough left for a bowl. Except he's out of milk. Shrugging, he grabs a beer from the fridge – never out of alcohol – and plops down on the ratty old couch. He munches on a handful of cereal as he flicks on the television to some random news station, just for some background noise.

_"—Joker has broken out of Arkham Asylum once again—"_

The beer bottle smashes against the floor.

Jason is frozen, staring blankly at the screen. _Not again, please_, some part of him whispers, but he pushes it to the side because he is not fucking _weak_. So the Joker got out again. So what? So he hadn't left Arkham since the Incident. So what? This is his chance, isn't it – find the Joker and this time, once and for all, put him out of his crazed misery? This is his second chance for revenge.

…except he doesn't know if he really _wants_ it. Oh, he wants to kill the clown all right – as slowly and painfully as possible, preferably, though a quick death would be most efficient – but Jason also doesn't want to go through the trouble of reopening old wounds, not after last time. Last time he wasted his time, his chance at revenge, and for what? Trying to get daddy to notice him? No, never again.

He's Jason Todd, former street kid, former Robin the Boy Wonder, he's the mother_fucking_ Red Hood, and he does not need anyone's validation. He does not need Batman, and he sure as _hell_ does not need Bruce Wayne. Not anymore.

_"—happened around midnight, leaving six dead and four injured, authorities have made no progress in finding—"_

He takes a deep breath, clenches and unclenches his fists. His mind is in turmoil. Neither his desire for revenge nor his (admittedly questionable at times) morals will let him leave this alone, but _god_, he just feels so damn tired, of everything. Of Gotham. Maybe he should just leave, take a vacation for once.

(Sometimes he wishes he'd just never bothered to come back at all.)

But then the date flashes across the bottom right corner of the screen. The twenty-sixth of June. _Of course it had to be today, of all days_. He shakes his head. _Ten years_.

Ten years to the day he met Batman . . . Bruce Wayne . . . the only father figure that, once upon a time, had been worth something in his life.

Well then.

Time to do some clown-hunting.


	2. Part Two

**Requiem**

_**Part Two:**_

_**The Hunt Begins**_

"_**Basically, run." – the Eleventh Doctor, Doctor Who**_

The first thing Jason does is rewrap his side for the second time that night (morning?). It feels pointless, since he just did it not very long ago, but he needs to be able to move comfortably, while at the same time having the bandages tight enough and thick enough that should his stitches rip again he won't bleed to death. (He's angry, not stupid.)

This takes about five frustrating minutes to get right. Now that he's made up his mind, he wants to get out there _right away_. There are surely Bats already out and about, some having still been patrolling when he came home and went to sleep about three and a half hours ago, and he doesn't want them butting in on his search. Of course, it's bound to happen anyway – they're all looking for the same person, after all – but a guy can dream, right?

He's not sure what they'll do when they catch wind of his movement. It's hard to believe they'd just leave him to it, even if it's the Joker, _especially_ if it's the Joker, but he also can't see Br-_Batman_ wasting manpower on sending some poor bastard to tail him. Regardless, he finishes off the wrapping with a careful knot and closes his eyes briefly, mentally composing a list of what he'll need.

This is dangerous. He knows danger, deals with it every damn night, but this is different. Like the Incident was different. Like it was different all those years ago. And he is not going to get himself killed through his own recklessness and naiveté, not again.

Opening his eyes again, he leaves the bathroom and pulls his best Red Hood gear out of the closet. The shirt and pants are armored but easy to maneuver in, with hidden pockets to stash extra ammo in. It's a bit of a struggle to get into them, trying not to stretch the stitches too much too soon, but eventually he's shrugging one of his leather jackets on and slipping into his boots. Now for the guns.

Despite popular belief, he doesn't usually use lethal ammunition – at least, not anymore. It's a lot easier to get along with the Bats that way. (Not that he needs their approval for anything, he just. Doesn't want to fucking deal with their badgering all the time.) But he thinks, like a mantra repeating in his head, over and over, tonight is different. Tonight is special.

It's time to break out the killers.

He's got room for four guns, two in the holsters at each hip, and two in the holsters hidden inside the jacket. There's also a special pocket for his favorite knife, the kris that can cut through even Batman's utility belt, and holsters for two more knives attached to his boots. Taking a deep breath, he carefully fills three guns with bullets, real bullets, and stuffs them into their proper holsters. He'll use the last holster for his grapple, he thinks, then hesitates. Maybe he can fit one more gun somewhere. His boot? His belt? Pocket?

Something. He'll figure it out. After all, he can't be too careful, not when it comes to the psychopathic clown that destroyed his life.

Just one thing left, now. He slaps a red domino mask over his eyes and picks up one of his many red helmets. This one's got some pretty fancy tech in it – if Oracle is as distracted as he suspects she'll be, he might even be able to listen in on the Bats' frequency without getting noticed. Then he stops short, realizing with a tinge of disgust that he's going all out for the _Joker_.

Shaking his head, he secures the red helmet over his head and checks the television one last time, to see if the press has gotten a hold of any new info in the last twenty minutes since he first saw the coverage.

_"—nothing on the Joker's latest escape, though word has it the entirety of Gotham's caped community is out on the streets—"_

_ Damn. _He lets out a sardonic chuckle. Everyone out already, all except him . . . though he doesn't expect anyone to count him. He was hoping to get a head start, at least on some of them, but it's obvious that his determination to be prepared for anything made him much slower than he anticipated. Oh well. He can work with that, right?

_"—no sightings of the infamous Red Hood, who for reasons unknown has long had it out for the clown—"_

"Everyone has it out for the Joker," Jason mutters with a roll of his eyes behind the helmet, shutting off the television and locking up. This may not be his nicest safe-house, but it's his and he doesn't want anyone getting into his shit. With one last glance around, he slides open the window and leaves. The window shuts behind him, and with that he is no longer Jason Todd, he is the Red Hood, and heads are about to fucking _roll_. Possibly literally.

The easiest way to find the Joker would be to follow the trail of carnage the clown usually left in his wake, but this time it seems the psychopath is being sneaky. _Probably planning something gruesome_, Red Hood thinks as he stalks the rooftops. No signs of any other vigilantes out here, either, which is a little disconcerting. Either they're off chasing a lead in some other part of the city, or they're ignoring him. He doesn't want to think about the third option.

The next of his options for tracking the Joker is a little more difficult, but manageable. He has contacts in almost every criminal organization in Gotham, willing or not. The Joker couldn't have made such a chaotic escape without some help, help that he needed to have hired. Which means he had to have advertised.

So it's time for the Red Hood to do a little interrogation.

He reaches the edge of a low rooftop and drops down the fire escape on the side. One of his informants frequents the bar next door, and is likely to have a promising lead. He enters the bar through the back door, taking care to remain in the shadows, and surveys the scene.

The place is crowded, dirty and dingy; the air thick with alcohol and sweat and broken promises and dreams long thrown away. The patrons sitting at the counter are sipping from dusty glasses and grimacing at the taste, while others crowd around a dilapidated pool table, arguing. Swiping at glasses with an old rag that's probably covered in grime, the bartender side-eyes everyone there with a well-placed suspicion. It's a familiar scene, an atmosphere long remembered from a childhood spent seeing Willis Todd frequent bars exactly like this one. For a minute, as he breathes in the stale air, he's thrown back to those days, when father-son bonding time meant supporting his old man as the drunk stumbled out of bar after bar, night after night.

He shakes his head in disgust, banishing the memories into some dark corner of his mind. Willis Todd had never really been his father, not in any way that counted, and now is not the time to be going over old hurts. Scanning the small, greasy bar again, he finds what he's looking for slumped over the counter in the corner near the door.

With a smirk hidden behind his blood red helmet, he swaggers over to the man, a hush coming over the place as he goes. Samuel "Stretch" Samson doesn't notice anything, just takes a swig of his beer and wipes clumsily at his mouth. Clearly well on his way to getting completely smashed, if not already there.

"How's it goin', Stretch?" the Red Hood asks casually, watching with an almost sadistic satisfaction as Samson nearly chokes on his drink. He claps the man's back, harder than strictly necessary, and leans against the bar. "Not good? That's too bad."

"…Hood," Samson gasps, clutching his chest. "I thought—"

"That I'd be home, all tucked up in bed?" Hood clucks, tilting his head. "I was. Well, I was home, anyway, but guess what I just happened to see on the television?"

Samson's face starts to gleam with a greenish tint. "I dunno," he says uneasily. "I was here all night, I was. I wouldn't know."

"Oh, but you _do_ know what I'm talking about." The Red Hood leans in close, the blank surface of the mask looming over the pathetic, trembling man. "And you know exactly why I'm here. Now tell me: where is the Joker?"

"The Joker?" Samson squeaks. _Gotcha. _"Why would I know where he is?"

"Because you're a lowlife scumbag, and you're going to tell me what you know before I have to get . . . persuasive." He reaches into his jacket and slides out the kris, which understandably makes the other man pale severely. "I'm sure you don't want that. Just tell me what I need to know, and I'll be on my way."

"I don't know," the man blurts, eyes still on the knife. "I don't know where that psycho is, honest, but word went round that he was hiring about a month back, offering some crazy money for some kinda mystery job."

"And why," growls Hood, pressing the knife lightly into Samson's leg, "didn't you come to me when you heard this? You know I don't tolerate the Joker, or any of his hired lunatics."

"I-I-I," Samson stammers, looking like he's about to piss his pants. Rolling his eyes, Hood stows the knife back in his jacket.

"Who else knows?"

"I-I heard it from Jimmy Higgs, over on Park Way. Said his cousin was desperate for cash, _he_ mighta taken the job. I don't know anything else, I swear!"

He regards the other man for a second, decides that he's being truthful, and nods. "Mention this to anyone, and I'll kill every single one of you," he says, loud enough for the entirety of the eerily quiet bar to hear despite not having turned away from Samson. "Painfully."

Satisfied, he turns and exits the seedy bar the same way he came in; with a casually threatening swagger among the terrified hush. He's pretty sure Samson might have just wet himself from relief, but it's not like he's about to turn back and check; he needs to find this Jimmy Higgs and find out whether this lead is just a dead end or not.

With the Joker on the loose, wasting time is not a luxury he can afford.


	3. Part Three

**Requiem**

_**Part Three:**_

_**Dead Robins Club**_

"_**Life sucks, then you die." – ancient proverb**_

Jimmy Higgs did, in fact, turn out to be a dead end. As in, literally dead. Lying face-down on the floor with a knife in the back dead.

Jason sighs, nudging the body with his toe. There's a lot of blood, and the corpse is already starting to smell, setting the time of the murder back a few days at least. And he'd had such high hopes for this lead, too. Well, not exactly. But he was hoping for _something_.

He crouches down next to the body and inspects the knife carefully. It's an ordinary carving blade, probably even came from Higgs's own kitchen. _Except . . . there_.

A little smiley face, scratched into the base. He reaches out and tugs the knife free of the body, with a little difficulty considering that it has long gone stiff with rigor mortis, and turns it over in his hands. It's caked with dried blood, so there's nothing he can really glean from the blade, but with a closer look he can see that the hilt is a sturdy, dark wood with smooth metal bolts up the sides. Steel, most likely, judging by the shade of the metal and the overall tastefulness of the rest of the hilt.

Much too tasteful for someone like Jimmy Higgs, whose apartment is small and ratty and located on the wrong side of town. (Not that there is a right side of town in Gotham.)

Shifting into a more optimal position, he heaves the body over. A flash of bright red catches his eye immediately, and he reaches into the pocket of Higgs's hoodie to see what it is.

He stops, feels a shadow fall over him. Feels something curling in his stomach.

It's a playing card. A Joker playing card.

He clenches his jaw and stands, stuffing the card into his pocket. _Not such a dead end after all, then._ Higgs knew something, something that Stretch Samson didn't, something that warranted one of the Joker's signature calling cards. And it had to have something to do with that cousin Samson mentioned.

Jason only has to search through the dilapidated desk in the corner to find the address of the cousin, Fred. It's scribbled on the back of a grease-stained fast food receipt dated about three months back. A relatively new place, then – a perfect hideout for the Joker until he can finish setting up his show.

His throat tightens. Before he even realizes what he's doing, he's out the window, on his motorcycle, and halfway down the street.

Of course, it's a bad idea to go in all half-cocked, especially if the Joker really is hiding out with this Fred guy, so he slows to a stop once he's about three quarters of the way there. No need to alert the Joker or any of his goons to his presence, and he'll have time to formulate more of a plan than just "break in and kill that fucker" on the way. The information he's working with isn't very useful in that aspect, however. He doesn't know if the Joker is actually there, let alone how many others and, more importantly, how many weapons. What _kind_ of weapons.

Despite them having a head start, the Bats seemed to have known about as much as Jason did, and now _he's_ the one in the lead. Not by much, according to the chatter he's hearing in his ear, but he's closer than any of them. The thing about the Bats? As terrifying as they can be, they don't kill, and all but the stupidest of criminals know that. The Red Hood is a dangerous, brutal killer, by reputation if not always by nature, and that makes him a great with interrogations.

Jason blinks, suddenly hyper aware of his surroundings. There's a prickly feeling crawling up his spine, a warning sign. Someone is watching him.

He keeps going, pretending nothing is wrong. Now that he's paying more attention, he can hear footsteps from behind him, a single set, keeping pace. Too light to be a henchman, not quite stealthy enough to be a trained assassin. He lets out a huff of air, soundless, having known that a confrontation with at least one of the Bats was going to happen sooner or later – although he had definitely been hoping for later.

"Can I help you?" he asks with a fake, caustic cheer, casually pulling out his kris and turning around to face his follower in the darkness. At first he can only see an outline, definitely caped, until the figure steps out of the deeper shadows and eventually resolves into the purple, hooded being known as Spoiler.

"Yes, actually," she says brightly. The chatter in his ear erupts into a quiet roar, and he realizes that the Bats have recognized his voice and are screaming at her to get away from him. They don't know he's listening in. He laughs to himself and turns down the distracting noise. "I just wanted to introduce myself."

Jason frowns, although he knows she can't see it. "I already know who you are, kid," he says. "Pretty sure you're supposed to be dead."

"Well, so are you, but here we are," Spoiler retorts. Jason has to snort at that. Kid's got balls, that's for sure. "Welcome to the Dead-But-Not-Really-Dead Robins Club. Or just Dead Robins Club for short."

He scoffs. "Dead Robins Club? You've _got_ to be shitting me."

"Nope," she says, popping the _p_. "It's totally exclusive too."

"Look, kid, you seem okay and all," he begins, flipping the kris casually in his hand. It's his way of saying that, yeah, this conversation? Over. "But why would I want to be in some kind of kiddie club with you?"

"Because I'm awesome." _Well, there is that._ "And because it's always better to have backup when dealing with the Joker."

Outwardly he doesn't seem fazed, continuing to toy with the dagger, but inside he's frozen. The girl has a point, even if he really hates to admit it. But since when has he cared about playing it safe? He doesn't want a Bat butting in on this either, and even if it's _her_ idea to work together, she isn't about to approve of his methods.

But she stands firm, not even flinching when he points the kris at her. Maybe that's what makes him agree. "…alright, _just_ this once. And if you really wanna do this, we play by _my_ rules," he states decisively. "After all, I'm the _original_ Dead Robin."

Jason can't actually see it, but he's pretty sure she's grinning. "Oh, of course," she agrees, and he is very, very certain that he will regret this later. He isn't about to say no, though, not about to let a teenage girl make him second guess himself. He's stuck with her now.

Great.

He blinks, suddenly very aware of the fact that the quiet chatter in his ear has died off into nothing. The Bats will be tracking them through Spoiler's earpiece, and are probably on their way this very second. It's time to move.

"Let's go." Without waiting for her to respond, he turns on his heel and starts stalking toward their destination. "And ditch the others!"

She knows exactly what he's talking about, and doesn't even try to pretend otherwise, only hesitating a moment before taking out the earpiece and, after making sure his back is turned, hiding it in a crevice in the wall. Predictable. The Bats will still be tracking them, but even if he made her destroy it they'd still have her last known location and be able to catch up from there. "Alright, so where are we going, oh wise leader? What's the plan?" she calls, jogging to catch up with him.

"Found this on the body of Jimmy Higgs," he says, taking the red joker card from his pocket and flashing it at her. She plucks it from his hand and inspects it, noting the few drops of blood dried onto it. "Informant says his cousin was looking for a job, might've taken up with the clown."

"So we're going to this cousin's place?"

"I got a recent address from Jimbo's apartment, pretty new place by the looks of it," he confirms. "And if he didn't leave a forwarding address when he moved…"

"…he wouldn't have anyone coming around to see him. Perfect hideout for the Joker, if only temporarily," Spoiler finishes. "Except he told his cousin?"

"So Joker killed him, yeah."

"Damn." She shakes her head. "So, any other info on the place?"

"I know the apartment is on the third floor, and there will be at least two exits from the apartment itself, more from the building," Jason lists off. It's not much, hardly anything; just standard knowledge. "We'll need to scout out those first, make sure they're covered."

"That's it?"

"It's not like I have all that fancy-ass surveillance equipment you Bats are so fond of," he says gruffly.

She puts her hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright. Let's get going then," she says determinedly, racing ahead.

"Hey, who's the leader here?" he shouts, running after her. She laughs. "You don't even know the address!"

"Good point! What is it?"

Yeah, he's definitely going to regret this. If only from the massive headache this Spoiler kid is going to give him.

They reach the place in a few minutes time, peering at it from an alleyway across and down the street. "Are you sure this is the place?" Spoiler whispers. "It doesn't look like much."

"It's supposed to be a hideout, not a fucking vacation home," he hisses at her.

"Calm down, helmet head, it was just a question."

He rolls his eyes. "Rule one, no stupid questions."

"There's no such thing as a stupid question," she quotes wisely.

"Only stupid people," he finishes.

"Hey!"


End file.
